“Yes, I know, I’m forty, too, and I’m not ashamed of it, so you needn’t twit me with that,” said Keziah snappishly. “I’m in no hurry to change my name into Pash—Pash indeed. I’m sure Bay’s ever so much better.”
“It is! I know it is,” said Peter, “and I didn’t twit you about your years. Ain’t I always said that you were just growing into your prime? But I see how it is: it’s pride—it’s the pride of the composites, Keziah, and you’re trying to throw me over after I’ve been a true lover all these years.”
“Are you going to talk sense; or am I to leave you to chatter that sickly twaddle to the cat?—true lover indeed!”
“Go it!” cried Peter, “it’s pride! I can see through it all. Why don’t you be open with me? But, mark my words, Keziah, there’s more sterling substance in a short six, or even a height, than in all your grand composites, as set themselves up for sparm or wax. I’m tallow, I am, and I respect tallow. I like people not to be ashamed of their position. We can’t all be wax, nor yet sparm, so why not be content as a good honest dip, or a mould! Why, even your twelve or fourteen has a honesty about it that your sham, make-believe imitation wax don’t possess—things as won’t stand so much as a draught of air without flaring, and guttering down, and spattering all over your carpets. It’s pride, Keziah, and that’s all about it.”
“No, it ain’t,” said Keziah quietly.
“To throw me over like this,” continued Mr Pash in injured tones, “and after all my attentions and presents.”
“Presents, indeed!” exclaimed the lady, “attentions!—very delicate attentions. Kidneys, that you got out of the nasty fat that you buy of the butchers.”
“But I never brought one as was the least tainted,” said Peter, “and you always said there was nothing nicer for supper.”
“And, pray, who always ate a good half?” retorted Keziah angrily.
“But I never should have touched ’em if they hadn’t been so gloriously cooked—such brown—such gravy! O, Keziah, don’t be hard on me,” sighed Peter.